


Neither Rhyme Nor Reason

by valderys



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Community: hobbit_smut, Fluff, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-01
Updated: 2010-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:43:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has something new he'd like Frodo to try…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neither Rhyme Nor Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2005 for Hobbit_smut's 'Double Dare!' challenge. The poetry was translated from Tolkien into Sindarin by Ellen Brundige.

"A _poetry_ competition?"

Frodo stared over at Sam in surprise, who was calmly doing the washing up, looking comfortably normal, and not having suddenly sprung two heads, or turned purple, or done anything else to indicate that the mushrooms they'd both had for second breakfast were the dubious spotty kind in disguise.

"Why not, Mr Frodo? I thought it'd be something that would take your fancy." Sam glanced over and then ducked his head a little to hide his smile. "Maybe I was wrong."

"But well – I've never thought about doing that kind of thing, Sam!"

Unreasonably flustered, Frodo toyed with the remains of his toast, and wondered why the idea had shocked him quite as much as it had. After all, it was no secret that he translated Elvish poetry, among other things. He was quite proud of it in actual fact. It gave him something else to flaunt in the faces of those folk who called him 'Mad Baggins' and worse names.

"The bit 'o paper they were handing out is on the dresser, Mr Frodo, if you want to take a look." Sam nodded with his chin, his hands still immersed in hot water and suds to the elbows.

Frodo blinked at Sam, still a little bemused, and then wiped his fingers with a napkin, before slowly making his way over to the dresser. The 'bit 'o paper' was a flyer of some kind, thin creamy paper, with a woodcut design stamped onto it. Someone had gone to quite a lot of trouble.

'To Commemorate the 200th Anniversary of the Building of the Mayor's Smial at Michel Delving, the Mayor's Office Announces A Competition of Poesy, to celebrate this fine occasion, and this fine Civic Hole, in Uplifting Rhyme. Open to One and All. Winners to Read their Work at a Banquet to be held in their Honour, 14th Forelithe Next.'

The woodcut even had carved leaves and flowers set in around the edges.

"Goodness," said Frodo, "Will Whitfoot really has let being elected Mayor go to his head. This is a bit extravagant, don't you think?"

Sam cocked his head on one side, and this time his smile gleamed, "If you ask me, it's just another excuse for a banquet – and you know how much Mr Whitfoot likes _them_, sir. I reckon poetry is only the icing on the cake, if you take my meaning."

"The cake being the important part? Yes, I think you might be right, Sam."

"So do you fancy it then?"

Frodo looked at the paper again, and followed the slightly smudged outline of a particularly enthusiastic oak leaf with the tip of his finger.

"Oh, I don't know, Sam. I'm not sure if I can even write poetry. I've never tried. I'm not Bilbo, I'm afraid."

Sam looked a little dismayed and reached for the tea-towel where it hung on its hook. "Oh sir, I've heard you translate some lovely phrases – and you can't be telling me that's just the Elvish, because I won't believe it and that's flat!"

Shyly, Frodo turned away and blushed, "That's very kind of you Sam, but really…"

Then he sucked in his breath in a little gasp, as Sam caught him around the middle and pulled him into his arms. He spluttered a little and batted ineffectually at Sam's entirely too firm hands.

"Really, I'm all over crumbs! Sam! I haven't even finished second breakfast…"

"Begging your pardon, but yes, you have. You know you never finish that last bit of toast, just push it round your plate, like. And I'm sure you could come up with a right nice rhyme or two, Mr Frodo, if you put your mind to it."

"No, no! Anyway, every Tom, Dick or Harry from here to Buckland who fancies himself a wordsmith will have a stab at it. I wouldn't want to think about comparing my own work against the doggerel the likes of… of Tolbert Bigby might come up with!"

They both stilled for a second as they remembered the truly awful recitation Tolly had subjected them to when in his cups, the last time they had ventured to the Green Dragon. Frodo suppressed a slight shudder, and then shuddered for an entirely more delightful reason as Sam started to delicately nuzzle his neck.

"Are you telling me…" Nuzzle. "That you are too proud…" Nibble. "To be seen on a stage…" Nip. "With the likes of Tolly Bigby..?"

"What..? Oh Sam… Pride has nothing to do with it. Don't stop! Well, it's not my first consideration, anyway…"

Sam moved his ministrations to Frodo's ear, and Frodo shivered as he felt Sam's warm breath feather across his skin.

"Glad to hear it, Mr Frodo. So what's stopping you, like?"

"Oh, I don't know… It's not dignified. I wouldn't dare…"

Frodo gasped as Sam moved one hand down from his waist and slipped it, warm and slightly damp from the dishes, into his trousers.

"If you're worried about dignity, sir, I'm thinking that it's a mite too late for that kind of thing."

"I don't know what you _mean_… Oh!" Leaning back onto Sam, Frodo contemplated just letting Sam have his way. In more ways than one. He bit his lip and then twisted a little until he could begin some nibbling of his own.

"In private is one thing, Sam, but in public it's quite another…" he mumbled against the warm skin of Sam's throat.

"Well, we're not in public now, are we, Mr Frodo? Why don't we just dip a toe in the water, as my Gaffer might say?"

As Sam's hand was now stroking in quite an interesting way, Frodo was not entirely sure that poetry was the uppermost thought in his mind at the moment, and he tried to say so.

"Oh Sam…" he began, then nearly moaned, as the same hand stilled, and Sam bent a little more until his voice rumbled deep and gravelly in Frodo's ear.

"Just one line, Mr Frodo, why don't you try it? For your Sam…"

What an invitation! Frodo was sure it would persuade the birds out of the trees, or the fish to the line. Which put him in mind of…

"Ennas dû alfanui…"

"See, there you go, you're doing fine, Mr Frodo."

Sam's hand began to stroke again and Frodo nearly moaned for a much more interesting reason, but kept reciting, "A ferin 'irith gerir…"

And the words in Sindarin certainly did have a much more interesting tone to them than usual as they slid across the warm skin of Sam's neck. He began to punctuate each line with a swipe of his tongue or a small bite.

"I elenath, viriath fain…"

"That's right, sir, keep going!"

Well, as long as Sam didn't stop, Frodo decided he could continue all morning. "Vi finnel gelfib dîn…"

This was getting quite uncomfortable. Impatiently, Frodo reached for his own buttons with shaking fingers, and rapidly popped them to let Sam have more room to… work That was it. Definitely.

"Sí na veth bâden im derel…"

Frodo could feel that it wasn't just himself who was finding this quite an interesting morning, and that just made things better, or worse, depending on your point of view.

"Vi dúath dofn tummen…"

So he ground back a little onto… Ah there! Was that a groan from Sam? Something certainly seemed to be rousing him anyway. So to speak. Gently Frodo bit down on the fluttering pulse under his tongue.

"Atham meraid velig a tynd…"

Hoarse, he could swear he was going hoarse. That would never do. But, oh, Sam had sped up, such firm hands, and always so good with them, so good…

"Athan eryd bain beraidh…"

But not so good with his legs apparently, Frodo thought, as they staggered back until Sam collided – luckily not too hard – with the solid weight of the sideboard. The best dishes rattled.

"Or 'waith bain nura Anor…"

He couldn't keep this going for much longer, he just couldn't… It was too much, all too much, Sam was…

"A panlû elin cuinar… Oh! Oh!"

Wonderful.

Gasping, Frodo slumped bonelessly in Sam's arms, as shudders of delicious aftermath shook him, and Sam planted kisses in his hair.

"Well, that was certainly better than second breakfast, Sam, if a little unexpected," Frodo managed, as he regained his breath.

A chuckle sounded in his ear, and Frodo twisted a little more until he could look his Sam in the eye. He was deliciously flushed, and his eyes were very bright.

"Glad I could oblige you, sir."

"Oblige me? I hardly had any choice in the matter, now did I, Sam? Not that I'm exactly complaining, of course."

Sam grinned wickedly, and Frodo laughed.

"So what was all this about, Sam? Do you really want me to enter that poetry competition?"

Sam looked down a little sheepishly. "It were more that I wanted to hear you speak your Elvish, sir, what with it being so beautiful, and you too, Mr Frodo. Begging your pardon – it were just that I wanted the both of you together, in a manner of speaking."

"Sam. You only had to ask, you know. I'm flattered that you think so much of my work."

"That's not all I think much of, as I'm hoping you know."

"I too, Sam, I too think a great deal of... I don't even think I could say how much."

"Aye. I know."

They exchanged another smile, this time more tender and fragile than before, and Frodo felt his heart swell in his chest. Then as he shifted a little more, he felt something else that might be considered swollen, and looked down.

"Sam! I've left you unhappy!"

"Not unhappy, sir, never that."

"Well, you know what I mean. Something should be done!"

"No, no, don't you be troubling yourself."

"But Sam, I really must insist. …There's a little more to the rhyme."

"Ah… Really, sir?"

"Oh yes. And I can think of plenty of others, you know. That I'll need to practice. That's right. Practice. For the competition."

"But I thought you said… Umm. Right you are then, sir. Mustn't stand in your way."

"And I think I need to practice with different acoustics, don't you? To get the full effect? What about the bedroom, Sam? I think we need to start there. And bring the liniment. In case my… my throat gets sore!"

"If you're sure, sir."

"I'm sure. Certain, in fact. And, believe me, Sam, I am confident it will be no trouble at all..."


End file.
